Dear Sherlock, if you're reading this
by HunSher
Summary: Written form my own prompt on the kink meme. John and fem!Sherlock are in a happy relationship and try for a baby for months. She gets pregnant just a few months before John is sent off to Afghanistan.


Sherlock was standing by the sink in the bathroom, clutching the pregnancy test in her hand when the result on the little screen flashed. Her feet slid out from under her and with a heartbreaking yell she fell to the floor. She rocked back and forth as she tried to accept the cruel reality_. She wasn't pregnant_.

John almost fell into the bathroom as he came in, throwing the door open with a loud bang. His face contorted when Sherlock's form came into his vision. He immediately dropped to his knees next to his wife and wrapped her in his arms.

Sherlock looked up at him, face striped with tears, her lower lip trembling.

"I'm sorry, John. I am so sorry." she whispered, looking away from John as she covered her mouth with her free hand. He knew she was devastated and blamed herself.

„Shhh. It's okay, my love. Please, don't cry." said John and held Sherlock tighter as he petted her back, rocking her in his arms. "Next time, it will happen next time."

"You said it last time and the time before that." She cast an accusing and disappointed look at him. "It's still not true!" she almost growled.

"I know, I know. But we cannot give up. We want it and we can do this."

* * *

John put his bacon and beans down on the table, a famished look in his eyes, while Sherlock was reading a newspaper on the couch. He started eating with an enviable appetite when the smell of the food lingered towards the consulting detective and she jumped to her feet when she took a whiff of it. She threw the paper back on the furniture and ran towards the bathroom, almost knocking over a chair in the kitchen. John stopped chewing, looking like a greedy hamster with food in his mouth and stared confused after his woman.

"John, what have we had last night for dinner? Something is bothering my digestion." Sherlock came back, rubbing the sleeve of her dressing gown over her mouth.

"I gueff we hav fe fame. Fweet and four ficken fif noovle." John was still stuffing the delicious meal into his mouth, not bothering to swallow before speaking.

"God, John, don't talk with food in your mouth or else I will throw up again." She threw a disgusted look at John's food, trying hard to will the churning of her bile back and flopped back on the couch as elegantly as it is humanly possible after vomiting. "I don't know how your stomach can process last night's dinner, but this was the third time I threw up this morning. This must mean something."

The clashing sound of cutleries made her head snap up into the direction of the dining table. John was clearly having problems with breathing because his face was turning red and purple. His eyes were so wide it was possible that they would land in his breakfast, ruining the harmony of the flavors.

"Say that again." he spat out after a few moments of intense concentration to make his brain work the way it was needed to be able to speak.

"I said that it must mean something." she huffed and losing interest, she looked back at the ceiling.

"It might do, actually." John coughed and his voice was harsh and thick.

"Yeah?" Sherlock seemed to have lost interest and has started booting John's laptop.

"Morning sickness is a sign of pregnancy." John almost whispered but these words had an immediate effect. Sherlock shut the lid of the computer and hurried into the bathroom again. No, she didn't throw up this time, but she rummaged through the cupboards next to the sink. When John came in, she was on the tip of her toes, trying to reach the package at the back of the shelf. When she found what she was looking for, she dropped herself down on the toilet unceremoniously and started to unwrap the package.

"Er… Do you want me to go out?" John felt embarrassed, barging in on her privacy.

"No. Not this time. I want to have you on my side. I won't be able to hold myself together, if…" she trailed off, but John knew perfectly well what she meant.

"Okay. I'll stay. But I'd rather turn away." She had to smile a little at that. Good old John, self-conscious about her peeing in front of him. And he was a doctor…

"Ready?" he asked when the sounds died away.

"Finished, but I don't know if I'm ready for this." Sherlock shook off most of the excess fluid and stared at him, waiting nervously.

John knelt next to her, putting his hand on her thigh, drawing little circles on her skin with his thumb. He didn't dare to look at the device, he looked at her solemn face instead.

"Oh God. John. Oh God."

"What?"

"It's positive. I'm pregnant!" Sherlock looked at her husband and as she saw the indescribable joy on his features, tears started their ways down her hot cheeks, in unison with his tears.

"We're having a baby. Jesus Christ, Sherlock, we are going to be parents!"

* * *

3 months later they were sitting anxiously in the waiting room of a well-known obstetric clinic, holding each other's hands, legs moving up and down restlessly.

When the door of the doctor opened for what seemed like more than the tenth time, John squeezed Sherlock's hand lightly, looked her in the eye and led her into the room.

"Good morning, Mr. and Mrs…" said the doctor and looked at her notes for their name, "Watson. How are you feeling?" She put on her best doctor-smile and waved at the examining chair for Sherlock to sit down.

"It's Dr. and Mrs. Watson, actually." corrected Sherlock, and she smiled at her husband when he shook his head disapprovingly, but with a smirk playing on his lips.

"Oh, I see, sorry. Let's see what we can do."

She asked Sherlock to sit on the examining chair and she did with some difficulty – it wasn't so easy with her extra weight.

The doctor sat next to Sherlock's chair and asked a few basic questions about her general health, family history, possible allergies, and she asked John the same things.

When she was satisfied with their answers she rummaged through the tools on a tray and held a bottle of gel in front of Sherlock.

"It might be a little cool first but it warms up quickly." She squeezed some of it on Sherlock's lower abdomen and started moving the transducer across her skin. After a few minutes of silence she pointed at the screen.

"There it is, right there."

To be honest, John needed to concentrate really hard, squinting and using all his imagination to transform the blur into a baby-like shape. When he finally saw what he thought he wanted to see, he glanced at his wife and his heart clenched. She was blinking back her tears at a furious speed and her lips were trembling, and she was sniffing. She looked like a dark angel, her dark brown hair like a halo around her pale face and glowing blue eyes. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips were red and swollen as she tried to hold her sobs back.

"It's really there." murmured John as he stepped closer to Sherlock and put his hand on her shoulder. She lifted it to her cheek and rubbed it against her cheekbones softly, then kissed his knuckles.

* * *

Weeks and months passed and they argued about it, but in the end they decided that they wanted to know if it was a boy or a girl.

They were sitting in the now familiar waiting room as Dr. Spencer called their name. They went in; Sherlock climbed in the chair and after a few moments of fiddling, the gel and the transducer were on her belly.

They were waiting in complete silence, not daring to even breathe too harshly. And then there it was - the fast beating of a small heart. All three of them released the air from their lungs in unison.

"Could you tell us the sex of the baby, doctor?" John looked at Sherlock first, squeezed her hand then turned to the doctor.

"Might take a few moments, but yes, I can." She focused on the monitor and slid the transducer up and down on Sherlock's baby bump. After a couple of circles she held it in one place and without moving it she twisted her hand a bit and with a triumphant look she nodded towards the monitor.

"You can see it right there. Or more precisely, you can see the lack of it."

"Oh my God!" Sherlock covered her mouth with her hand and stared at the monitor for a solid 2 minutes then she turned towards John and removing her hand, smiled the loveliest smile he has ever seen.

"It's a girl. We are having a daughter, John!"

She was so excited, that John felt guilty that the only thing that came to his mind was a 15-year-old girl with long dark curls in a bikini as ripped guys were staring at her. And this is going to happen. He's going to be the father of a girl, and judging by the looks of her mother she will be smoking hot. _Oh dear Lord, have mercy on me_, he thought, _it will be harder than the war, trying to keep those hungry, testosterone-driven teenager boys away from _my baby girl.

"Yes, honey, a daughter." He knew he wasn't convincing at all, but hoped that Sherlock was too emotional to realize it.

"I know perfectly well that it sounds illogical, but I have a few ideas for her name. The only thing we should agree on is the surname. Is it going to be Watson or Holmes-Watson?" Sherlock chirped about similar things all the way home while John just sat next to her in the cab and cursed Mother Nature for creating teenager boys and their limited interest in this age.

* * *

After knowing that the baby is going to be a girl, Sherlock was unstoppable. She spent half of their savings on decorating and preparing the baby room –light purple walls, dark ebony cradle and furniture, all sorts of toys to facilitate cognitive and motor development.

The only argument Sherlock and John had about the decoration occurred when Sherlock got home from shopping and held a huge A1 sized photograph between John's face and the newspaper he was reading.

"What is this?" asked John and looked up at her face, a slightly maniac expression playing on it.

"This is going to be on the wall in the baby's room, you know, where we couldn't decide what to put there."

"Okay, but what's on it?" John eyed the red splashes with suspicion.

"Oh, John, your mind is so vacant! Look at them. Blood-splatter patterns!" Sherlock swung the paper as if the patches could be magically organized into a recognizable pattern.

"God, no. Sherlock! This is the room of our daughter we're talking about. You want to hang a photo of blood patterns on the wall of her room? Jesus Christ, no!" John hopped out of his chair and gesticulated wildly to emphasize his words with his movements.

"Why? She wouldn't know what they are and I think this pattern is actually rather decorative. Also, when she gets older, it could function as an association test sheet. Think about it. We could examine how her mind works!"

"Woman, you're out of your mind! I already told you, that experimenting with kids – especially the way you do – is not good, but doing it with your own child? No. This will not happen!" John put his hands on his hips and looked as intimidating as he felt physically possible.

And Sherlock did the only thing she knew would disarm John – looked at him from under her lashes and started rubbing his belly. "John." She said in her most balmy tone and fluttered her eyelashes. "Please."

"Ah, and here we go. You're doing it again! And you know that I can't say no to that." John shook his head and let his hands fall from his hips. "But no, I don't agree with you on hanging it up in her room. You can put it in ours, but not in hers." Hearing that, Sherlock happily closed her hands around John's face and kissed him then rushed out of the living room to find the perfect place for her picture.

* * *

Their happiness ended quickly when one day Sherlock, after spending a girls' afternoon out with Molly, opened the door of the flat to find John on the couch with his head buried in his hands. He hunched forward, his elbows on his knees and a piece of paper on the table in front of him.

Sherlock hurried to the kitchen, placed her bags on the dining table and went back to the living room to sit down next to John.

"What is it, John?" She put a hand on his back and drew tiny circles.

"I just got a letter from the Ministry of Defence. They're sending me back. They're sending me back to Afghanistan next week." He looked up at her and she could see that he was tormented.

"You want to go. You know we're having a baby in no more than 3 months and yet you want to fight in Afghanistan. Don't, John, please, don't." One single tear rolled down her face as she clutched his hand in hers.

"Sherlock, you know that I can't do anything against it. And you're right; I wanted to go and fight for my country, but not anymore. I have you now and we start a family soon. I don't want to risk my life. I want to be here to see the both of you. But I don't have a choice." He stroked her face, fondled her lower lip.

"I'm sure Mycroft can do something about it!" Sherlock was on her feet now, her hand resting on her belly. She started pacing the floor and was thinking of possible solutions. "You were invalided. There must be other soldiers who aren't injured and who don't have a family, who are young."

"Sherlock, love, I'm sure those guys are already called in, too." He reached out to touch her leg as she passed him, but she was too lost in her thoughts to stop for it.

"Don't just sit there, John. And do not act like it's okay and there's nothing to do. Do something!" She was yelling now, her tears painted long lines on her flushed cheeks.

John jumped up and caught her by the elbow to hold her against him. When her head touched his shoulder, she started sobbing, her back moving with her ragged gasps. He rubbed her back and buried his face in her jasmine smelling curls.

"It'll be okay, Sherlock, I'll come back. I'm sure I won't be there for long. And you will wait at the airport with our daughter on your arm and she'll be perfect just like you; smart, beautiful, sharp and sometimes a know-it-all, but perfect." His voice trailed off at the end and nuzzled closer to her to breathe her scent in as if he wanted to remember it for the months he's be away.

"I love you, John Watson, I hope you know that. You are the love of my life." Sherlock held him tighter and rubbed closer to smear a teardrop on his shoulder.

"And I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and I always will." He kissed the top of her head and rocked the both of them gently.

* * *

The first month dragged on incredibly slowly. Sherlock couldn't sleep in the first weeks, she had nightmares. She dreamt about John who was in a snow white desert. Everything was black and white and John played football with his mates, but after a few minutes it always turned into horror. The black and white picture had a new colour – red. A few red stains on John's torso, around his liver. It was barely visible at first, but stated growing. His shirt was soaking in red after a few moments, and drops started falling from his nose and it also leaked through his mouth. He smiled at Sherlock, but his teeth were red now, the blood colouring the front of his shirt.

Sherlock awoke every time in a pool of cold sweat, with the duvet tangled around her body and her belly. She threw it away and put one of her hands on her stomach, rubbing soothing circles on it, and scrubbed the sticky sweat form her face with her other hand.

She wrote a letter every day to John; some of them only a few lines long, but she couldn't help it, she needed to feel John there with her. On Friday she put these letters in an envelope and went to the post office and posted it.

She sent three letters and got a response three times. John's handwriting was calm and controlled, but she could detect dried splashes of teardrops on the paper. It always made her heart clench; she knew John wanted to come home and hold her tight.

After sending another two letters and not receiving any answers, she started worrying. It wasn't like John to forget to write. On a dark Tuesday afternoon she got her answer for her concerns.

* * *

She heard a soft knock on the front door and wondered who that might be, but doddered down the stairs and opened the door. A young man in army uniform stood in the doorway, hat in his hands.

Sherlock felt her arm sliding down the door as all her muscles gave. Her vision blurred and she felt free – she fainted and was falling heavily. The young soldier reacted immediately and held her before she could hit herself. He looked around and dragged her seemingly dead weight inside. Mrs Hudson stood in her doorframe and waved her hand up the stairs. She was pale and clutched her tissue to her mouth.

The man carried Sherlock back to the flat and laid her gently on the couch. Mrs Hudson was behind him immediately with a glass of water and put smelling salts under Sherlock's nose. She stirred and opened her eyes. She was still confused when her landlady pushed the glass in her hand and, knowing no mercy, held it up for her to drink.

"Are you alright, dear?" she asked her voice small and worried.

"Yes, Mrs Hudson, thank you." Sherlock tried to smile up at her, but her attempt failed. Mrs Hudson nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her.

The young man sat on the sofa opposite Sherlock and looked at her anxiously.

"I'm afraid I know the reason of sour visit, sir." Sherlock glanced at him and saw that he was tired and pained. He straightened, smoothed his uniform on his torso and held her look.

"Ma'am, I am sorry to inform you that your husband, Captain John H. Watson, from the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, was killed in action."

Sherlock took a very, very long breath to calm her nerves, clutched her belly and closed her eyes for a few moments. When she let out the shuddered breath, she looked at him and asked, "When will he be shipped home? When will I receive his belongings?" She needed all her strength to keep her voice even because she knew that if it were to crack she would start crying.

"I have no information about that, Ma'am, but I'm sure you'll be informed soon." He slowly stood up, fidgeted with his hat and murmured, "I'm really sorry", then straightened, looked at her, saluted and left.

Moments, then minutes passed by without her realising it, but when she recovered, she knew what she needed to do. She walked to her coat, dug in its pocket and took out her phone to dial John's mother.

* * *

She was sitting in the living room with Harry and her mother-in-law on her sides when the doorbell rang. Mrs Hudson, who was in the kitchen, hurried down the stairs to open the door. When she came back, she was followed by DI Lestrade and Mycroft.

"I know I am the last person you want to see right now, sister, but Lestrade and I -" He couldn't finish his sentence because Sherlock looped her arms around his shoulder and buried her face in his neck.

"Mycroft. John is not coming back. He's _dead_." Her voice was barely audible and trailed off on the last word and her shoulders trembled and she tried to stifle a moan in his clothes. He stroked her hair and held her tight, taken aback by her sudden need to be held.

When she let him go, she looked at Lestrade and saw raw pain and compassion in his eyes. A true friend, that's what he was, to both John and her.

"John wrote a letter before he left and made me swear that I give it to you when…" he swallowed hard, took a quivery breath and continued "when it was certain he won't be able to come back to you." He handed the ruffled letter to her and lowered his eyes to examine his shoes.

Sherlock staggered back and sat on the arm of the sofa as she held it in trembling hands. It was addressed to her in John's neat handwriting. _My Sherlock_.

She rubbed at the tears that escaped from her eyes, took a steadying breath, and flipped it over to open it. She usually loved the sound of paper being taken out of an envelope, but she couldn't hear it this time. She stared at the beautiful writing and started reading.

"_**Dear Sherlock,**_

_**If you're reading this and my Mama's sitting there then it looks like I only got a one way ticket over here. I sure wish I could give you one more kiss**__ and hold you tight. I know I said I wanted to come here, but that was before I met you, before we decided that we want a child. When I was younger and had nobody to be responsible for, I had big dreams of defending my country, but __**war was just a game we played when we were kids.**_

_**If you're reading this, half way around the world, then I won't be there to see the birth of our little girl. I hope she looks like you,**__ dark curls, pale skin and sparkly, blue eyes, but __**I hope she fights like me and stands up for the innocent and the weak.**_

_**If you're reading this, then there's going to come a day when you'll move on and find someone else and that's okay.**__ I know it is going to be hard and that you do not want to, but Sherlock, love, I want you to be happy and if that makes you happy, please, don't doom yourself to eternal loneliness. __**Just remember this, I'm in a better place, where soldiers live in peace and angels sing Amazing Grace.**_

_Now_ _**I'm laying down my gun, I'm hanging up boots, **_**and **_**I'm up here with God and we're both watching over you.**_

_**So lay me down in that open field out on the edge of town, **__where I proposed to you after that awful dinner we had with your mum and brother. That place is one of my favourites and it is because that's where you said you are going to be my wife and that you want to make my life a happier one. God, I loved how bold you were, telling me that my life wasn't happy before. But now I know that you were right, my life became complete when you entered it. Looking back at it, it looks like it was black and white and colours burst when you came. I know you don't share my family's religious beliefs but __**know **_**that **_**my soul is where my Mama always prayed that it would go.**_

_**And if you're reading this, I'm already home.**_

_I will love you until the end of time, and I die a happy man because I had the chance to know you and the privilege to say that you honoured me with your love. I don't regret being a soldier because that's what made it possible for us to meet. If it weren't for my shoulder, I wouldn't have been invalided and wouldn't have needed a flat share. I am grateful to God for making it happen because the years I spent with you were the best years of my life. You made me fall in love with you and made me happy, angry, anxious, nervous, worried and I experienced almost every emotion that is possible for a human to feel. But the only one that lingered is joy – to be able to tell people that I helped you in your work, and then that I became your husband and now to be the father of your daughter. _Our_ daughter._

_There__are not enough words to express how lucky I am to have had a woman like you by my side. I love you, and I hope you will remember that there was a man once who would have given everything to grow old with you, though he knows that you would be a grumpy old lady._

_I love you, I love our daughter and I will be up there to guide you._

_With my undying love,_

_Your John"_

A huge and ugly yell escaped Sherlock's throat when she finished reading as she slid from the arm of the couch to the ground and pressed the letter to her heart as hard as she could. Her head touched the carpet as she rocked back and forth, mumbling John's name as a mantra. Familiar hands stroked her back and rocked with her and she held her hand out to squeeze Mycroft's. Everyone in the room was struggling with their tears. They haven't read John's words but the sight of Sherlock was enough to break everyone's heart.

* * *

Years passed and it was autumn, leaves started falling, covering the grass in red, yellow and brown. The breeze was chilly and mixed the colours together. A 3-year-old little girl chased them around her mother, who was kneeling next to a grave. Her long, dark curls were in perfect contrast to the light blonde hair of the little girl, but their blue eyes made it clear that they were related. Only expert eyes could see that the little girl's eyes were not entirely blue – blue mixed with green and brown.

The woman brought a bouquet of forget-me-nots and tulips to express her deepest affections, her attachment and her undying love to a man she lost in war. When she placed the bouquet next to the cold stone, she stroked feathery touches to the letters engraved on the marble and touched her lips to them. She stood up, let the cold breeze dry her tears and turned on her heels.

As she was leaving, she turned back and called, "Joan!" And the little blonde angel ran to take her hand.


End file.
